


Mise en place

by breathtaken



Series: Mise en place [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, F/M, Food, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Polyamory, trouble conceiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 20:34:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17732192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: Constance looks at him, at the man who’s been probably her best friend for twelve years and who’s just had sex with her husband, at the creases at the corners of his eyes and his strong hands and his terrible bed hair, and thinks,what do I want?





	Mise en place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AgarthanGuide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgarthanGuide/gifts), [akathecentimetre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akathecentimetre/gifts).



> **Content notes:** Difficulty conceiving a child is one of the main themes of this fic; there’s one brief reference to violence during sex. As always with my fics, assume everyone is bi, poly and kinky unless otherwise stated. And they’re professional chefs, so maybe don’t read this one while hungry.
> 
> [akathecentimetre](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/akathecentimetre) asked me if I could write a little something for [Agarthanguide](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/Agarthanguide)’s birthday, and so planted the seed for a pairing I’ve been meaning to write ever since the show finished. Happy (belated) birthday, and thank you for all the beautiful art you continue to give us!

All the staff have left and Constance is putting the last things in place in the kitchen when she hears d’Artagnan’s voice from the dining room, surprised and happy: “Athos!”

She rushes to the doorway, bag of flour still in her hands – but he’s just on the phone, and she makes herself smile about the fact that he’d got her hopes up, for just a second.

His back is to her as he leans against the bar, Constance’s eye drawn down the lean lines of his back to the curve of his ass in his tight suit trousers – though it really wouldn’t be fair to go over and molest him while he’s talking to a man he’s been quietly in love with ever since she’s known him.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he’s saying, phone wedged between ear and shoulder as he fiddles with Porthos’ old channel knife, that Constance still can’t bring herself to call Brujon’s channel knife. “When? No, it’s really fine. As long as you need. I’ll ask her, of course, but it won’t be a problem. She’ll be – we’ll both be delighted. Okay. See you then. You too. Bye. Bye.”

 _See you then,_ she thinks, as d’Artagnan hangs up and turns to face her, expression bright with joy.

“They’re coming home. Next week.”

 

* * *

 

Of course, there was no question of asking them to stay anywhere else.

It’s been... _weird,_ without them. Lonely, with Porthos at the other end of the country and Aramis and Anne so wrapped up in each other that they might as well be unreachable, for all that they’re only on the other side of the city.

D’Artagnan and Constance haven’t made new friends. She privately thinks they’re probably too old to, and the restaurant eats all of their time in any case. They have new staff, of course, but it’s been far from easy being the only two real ‘Musketeers’ left. Having Athos back will be a blessing.

And not just for the business: d’Artagnan’s the happiest he’s been in months.

She doesn’t mind, how he feels about Athos; Athos himself must know, though they’ve never talked about it – d’Artagnan has absolutely no face for poker – and has never seemed to mind either. And d’Artagnan himself has assured her he doesn’t mind that nothing has ever come of it; he has a generous heart, Constance has always thought, and he was almost as happy when Athos met Sylvie as Athos was himself.

Constance would be lying if she said she’s never worried a little, but she’s worried about a lot of things over the years. And as Aramis once pointed out, it wasn’t making anyone unhappy, so where was the harm; and she’d felt silly and insecure but mostly relieved, that d’Artagnan could just feel how he felt and it didn’t have to be a betrayal.

She tries not to think about Aramis too much. It hurts, how little she recognises him these days.

Athos, Sylvie and Aurelie arrive on Saturday evening, just before the rush. When he hears them d’Artagnan abandons the sauté station entirely and Constance has to take over to avoid ruining a perfectly good steak au poivre; she doesn’t actually get to say a proper hello to them for another two hours, by which time most of their guests are onto dessert and coffee and she can join them at a corner table for a dinner that d’Artagnan insists on cooking himself, accepting their hugs and kisses and wishing she didn’t smell of fried meat for once, as if either of them would actually mind.

D’Artagnan’s grinning ear-to-ear, barely stopping talking long enough to eat; and Constance catches Athos’ eye across the table, his calm, quiet presence and his indulgent smile as he listens, and thinks, _God, I’ve missed you._

Before d’Artagnan, before she became a Musketeer, there was just her and Athos. A graver, still-haunted Athos then, their friendship forged by drinking too much and not quite talking about the fact that they’d both married young and stupidly, and were paying for it every day.

It’s been more than a decade – and it’s only looking at him now after so long apart that she realises just how far they’ve both come.

She realises Sylvie’s smiling at her, as if she knows what she’s thinking.

Constance is looking forward to getting to know her properly.

 

* * *

 

For the first time since John’s death, the flat feels full of life.

The happiest times of Constance’s life have always been spent with friends and family around her, and even though it’s another world in every other respect, living with just the two of them in a too-large space has always reminded her uncomfortably of her first marriage.

When she first takes Aurelie in her arms and sees her smile, she wonders what it will take to stop Athos and Sylvie ever leaving again.

“Do you want to have children?” Sylvie asks, from the chair opposite her – and Constance had forgotten how direct she is.

She wonders if Sylvie knows that she’s touching a sore spot; most likely, she knows all too well and believes in asking anyway.

She shrugs. To say ‘yes’ seems too simple. “We decided that if it was meant to happen, then it would. But – it hasn’t. And we have the Garrison. It’s practically a child in itself.”

“You’re not alone here.”

“We were,” Constance replies without thinking, and immediately feels guilty. “I’m sorry. Our staff are great, but they’re employees. Not friends. But I don’t begrudge anyone for leaving.”

“It’s okay. It was what we needed to do. But it was never intended to be permanent. We just needed to be away for a while, without the restaurant, and find out who we really were together, after everything that had happened.”

Constance makes herself nod, as if she understands. As if she and d’Artagnan had ever had the chance to find out who they were without the restaurant. “And did you?”

“Yes.” Sylvie smiles, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. “And that’s when we knew it was time to come home.”

 

* * *

 

The four of them fall into a rhythm almost immediately: Athos slots back onto the line as if he’d never left it, after d’Artagnan’s half-hearted attempt to give up his head chef position, made without any real expectation that Athos would ever take it. Having an extra chef frees up Constance to spend more time front of house, and to help Sylvie out with Aurelie when the restaurant’s slow.

It’s really nice. She and Sylvie had never had a chance to properly get to know each other before, during the riots, but now Constance feels that they’re becoming fast friends. Sylvie’s frank and funny and never shies away from talking about feelings, whether that be others’ or her own, in a way that reminds Constance sometimes a little too acutely of Aramis.

She sees Anne once, and it’s... awkward. They don’t know what to say to each other any more. Anne’s life appears to be as much a revolving door of meetings with local dignitaries and charity events as it always was, and Constance has never been able to relate to it, but they used to find something to laugh about all the same. She tells d’Artagnan she doesn’t know where that’s gone, but really she does: Anne just doesn’t need her any more.

She’s glad Aramis isn’t there – and then feels guilty about it for the rest of the day, until she confesses as much to Athos over a late-night coffee in the dining room as d’Artagnan closes up.

Athos considers for a moment, and then replies, “Sylvie would say that you can value the friendship you had, but that doesn’t make you obligated to try and continue it.”

That’s exactly what she’s been doing, Constance realises – though for whose benefit, she isn’t sure.

She says, “I don’t think they’re good for each other.”

It’s a test.

Athos inclines his head. “For someone so insightful regarding the feelings of others, Aramis has always had some rather curious blind spots when it comes to his own feelings. If he had been able to admit to being in love with Porthos, for example, I think things would have turned out very differently.”

Constance blinks.

It’s not that it surprises her, how much Athos has always seen – but their friendship has always been characterised by them _not_ talking about things.

She thinks this new, open Athos will take a bit of getting used to.

“Do you think he’ll come back? Porthos?”

“No. I think he’s moved on, for good.” Athos has always been able to read her; that’s why he gives her the smile he does, and briefly reaches out to squeeze her fingers. “I, however, am very glad to be home.”

In bed, she snuggles under d’Artagnan’s arm and says, “Athos is different, isn’t he. In a good way.”

“Yeah.” D’Artagnan squeezes her shoulder. “I’m really glad they came back.”

“Same. I – don’t want them to move out.”

She feels d’Artagnan’s body tense beside her. “Did he say something about it?”

“No, but he will do, sooner or later. If only to be polite.”

They haven’t discussed it at all. She thinks the unspoken assumption was that Athos and Sylvie would stay for a few weeks, and then search for a place of their own.

She’s not sure what it means, to ask them to stay. Couples don’t live together if they can afford not to, do they?

But this flat is big, too big for just the two of them.

And – more importantly, it feels right like this.

Sylvie would tell her not to overthink it, if it feels right.

“So when he does say something, I want to tell him not to.”

Her next thought is a scary one – and it hurts – but she makes herself say it:

“I mean – I want this to be permanent. And – even if we can’t have children, maybe we can help raise Aurelie. Properly. If they’ll let us.”

“Oh, my darling.” D’Artagnan squeezes her tightly, and she presses her nose gratefully into his neck. “We’d need to talk about it with them – a lot – but I think I’d be happy with that. Though we should keep trying. And maybe go to the doctor.”

“Maybe.” She doesn’t want to, not just yet. It feels like admitting defeat.

She asks, “Will you be okay living with Athos again?”

D’Artagnan laughs. “We lived together for seven years, remember.”

“When this was a bachelor pad,” Constance points out. “Not two couples and a baby.”

“A bachelor pad? I think Tréville’s turning in his grave. It was more like the Army. I’m just glad I’m not on the sofa any more.” D’Artagnan kisses the top of her head. “Seriously though, it’s fine. I’m just glad to have him back.”

“Are you still –”

She still doesn’t know what to call it, after all this time.

“Having feelings? I don’t think I’ll ever not be. But it’s been ten years. And I have you. And he has her. So. It’s all good.”

“Good,” Constance agrees, and pushes herself up to kiss him.

 

* * *

 

It’s a few days later, around the breakfast table, that Athos tentatively broaches the question of him and Sylvie considering where they’re going to be living long-term.

He’s not even trying particularly hard; and Constance finds herself saying into the washing up, “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you’re staying here,” without a moment’s hesitation.

She turns around just in time to catch the look Athos and Sylvie give each other, which dispels any danger of her second-guessing herself.

“D’Artagnan?” Athos asks politely.

D’Artagnan grins, grabbing the tea towel from Constance’s shoulder and reaching for the wet pan. “You’re welcome to argue with her if you want, Athos, but I really wouldn’t recommend it.”

Constance rolls her eyes. Like d’Artagnan never argues with her.

Sylvie adds: “If we’re staying here long-term, all the communal areas will need baby-proofing. And we’re buying a new bed. I think whoever was here before us wore that mattress out.”

“Aramis,” Athos and d’Artagnan say in unison, and they all burst out laughing.

The bed is a king-size divan, which barely makes it up the stairs in two pieces, and the mattress is worse. As the one with the least upper body strength, Constance puts herself in charge of looking after Aurelie and calling out warnings whenever anyone comes too close to scraping the walls.

They child-proof everything thoroughly. They also work out a household budget and re-divide the chores. She doesn’t say anything about Aurelie – it’s for Athos and Sylvie to raise when they’re ready – but at least she knows what her and d’Artagnan’s answer will be.

They’re still trying. Diligently, every two days during her fertile window, even when neither of them really feel like it. The third time in one week he can’t get it up; so Constance goes down on him thinking, _is this really worth it?_ and _but this could be the one._

When she considers that this could be their chance and they could miss it, she can’t not.

She probably just needs to jump him outside the window and slap him about a bit, remind them both that sex can actually be something they do for fun, but there’s always something that needs doing and in their rare moments of leisure she’s never really in the mood. Plus, there’s the noise to consider; and so the weeks pass, and it doesn’t happen.

On the morning of d’Artagnan’s birthday they put the Christmas decorations up, as they do every year; even though they’ve been up in other restaurants for weeks, John had always refused to hear a single word about Christmas until the beginning of December, and d’Artagnan’s birthday falling on the fourth became a convenient excuse to push it a few days later. It means they start taking the lucrative Christmas bookings a full week later than other restaurants in their bracket, but anything else would be a dishonour to John’s memory.

It’s also one of the few days in the year where they close, whatever day of the week it is. All the staff get the day off, leaving just the two of them – the four of them now, Constance quickly amends as Sylvie comes up from the cellars carrying a box of garlands that she can barely see over the top of, calling out, “Where do you want these?”

It's been seamless. Athos and Sylvie have slotted back into the flat and their lives as though they’d never left it. Constance and d’Artagnan have both fallen thoroughly in love with Aurelie too, and even if they can never conceive themselves, Constance thinks that maybe she could just be happy with this.

Something _is_ a bit off today. With Athos, that is: though he’s making a valiant effort, Constance can tell his now-uncharacteristic stillness and silence haven’t passed any of them by. Though, she reminds herself, this is his first Christmas here without John, whereas she and d’Artagnan have already had a few years to get used to it.

They leave him to his own devices in the kitchen, from which he only emerges for a quick lunch; once they’ve finished the decorating, the three of them take Amelie out to the park. She squeals with joy when she sees the ducks, and d’Artagnan insists on buying them all ice cream even though the temperature’s barely above freezing.

At seven that evening, Athos asks them to set the table. As is traditional, they’ve dressed for dinner: Sylvie looks stunning in sunshine yellow and Constance feels like she’s barely tried beside her, though when she put her hair up in the bathroom mirror d’Artagnan kissed the nape of her neck and said she looked beautiful. He looks good enough to eat himself in her favourite burgundy shirt, his hair loose and falling to his shoulders – and her fertility app told her she’s ovulating tonight, right on cue.

To start they have sautéed scallops with wilted endives, hazelnuts and Sauternes butter, paired with a brut cuvée that Constance knows will go to her head if she lets it. It’s perfect, because it’s Athos’, and she has to suppress a smile when d’Artagnan takes his first bite and makes a noise of pleasure that would not be out of place in the bedroom.

“This is absolutely fantastic. Thank you,” he says, and as Athos mumbles his thanks Constance could swear the tips of his ears have turned slightly pink.

They eat mostly in silence, as befits food this good, and it’s only when all their plates are cleared that Athos tops up all their glasses, and raises his.

“I’d like to raise a toast to the past,” he says, voice carrying in the quiet room. “To the Musketeers of old – and above all, to John.”

They clink their glasses against his.

“To John,” they echo, and drink.

“And a toast to the present. To the Musketeers as they are now, and to d’Artagnan.”

“To d’Artagnan,” Constance says, and squeezes his thigh under the table as she takes another drink.

Athos smiles, and for the first time today, it reaches his eyes. “Happy birthday.”

If the scallops were fantastic, the cassoulet is _divine._

Constance actually closes her eyes for a moment in sheer pleasure.

She’d never say it, but even d’Artagnan’s cassoulet isn’t _this_ good. She thinks it might be a hint of fennel seed, though of course Athos would never actually tell them his secrets.

Many minutes later, d’Artagnan is the last to put down his knife and fork. “ _Wow,_ ” he says, with feeling. “That was incredible, Athos, thank you so much. Can I already request this again for next year?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Athos replies. “By this time next year I might be into nouvelle cuisine.”

D’Artagnan snorts. “No you won’t. Though that reminds me, I was thinking of going vegan.”

Constance rolls her eyes.

Sylvie adds, “Athos is a big fan of tofu.”

“Impossible substance,” Athos mutters, exactly as he always does whenever tofu is mentioned, and Sylvie and d’Artagnan grin across the table at each other like children.

“Were you planning dessert as well?” d’Artagnan asks, “Because I’m not sure I have anywhere left to put it.”

Athos’ expression freezes.

“Ah,” he says quietly, and gives Sylvie a look that means _help me._

Constance frowns, uncomprehending, as Sylvie takes his hand where it rests against the edge of the table, and wonders if she should be worried.

“For dessert, we have two choices,” Sylvie says, and there’s a new edge to her words, that Constance isn’t sure she can interpret. “The first option is Athos’ signature crème brûlée, which I’ve been reliably informed is the best crème brûlée in all of Paris. Or, we can take you both to bed.”

For a moment, Constance thinks she’s misheard entirely.

It’s only d’Artagnan’s sharp intake of breath beside her that makes her realise she hasn’t.

“What if I want both?” she asks, into the silence that follows.

She isn’t sure if she’s joking.

“Crème brûlée first, then. I’m not coming back down here at midnight,” Athos quips, but his expression’s still carefully blank and his eyes are flicking between her and d’Artagnan. Searching.

“Constance,” d’Artagnan warns – and she feels immediately guilty, because of course this isn’t funny, not for him.

She turns to him, taking in his stunned expression, the tentative spark of hope in his dark eyes, and puts her hand on top of his where it’s gripping the stem of his wine glass, as if it’s the only thing holding him together.

“I’m not joking,” she says, giving the words all the weight they deserve. “I’m saying yes. If you are.”

 _Don’t overthink it, if it feels right_ – and the expression on d’Artagnan’s face is all she needs.

“I just want to get one thing clear,” he says, now looking at Athos. “This isn’t going to be some kind of straight people thing where we just swap partners, is it, because – I don’t think I could do that.”

In reply, Athos leans over, pulling d’Artagnan in with a hand on his neck, and kisses him on the mouth.

“No, it’s not.” As d’Artagnan stares, wide-eyed, Athos tucks his hair behind his ear, expression impossibly tender. “Should I do the crème brûlée?”

“ _Fuck_ the crème brûlée,” d’Artagnan says emphatically, and kisses him back.

 

* * *

 

As she crosses the threshold into Athos and Sylvie’s bedroom, Constance thinks absurdly, _this explains the king-size bed, then._

D’Artagnan has Athos backed up against the wall and is kissing him frantically, hands roaming up and down his body like he’s trying to learn everything at once, and Constance allows herself a flush of jealousy because d’Artagnan doesn’t touch her like that any more, before reminding herself firmly that they’ve been together for nearly a decade, and this is something new.

Sylvie’s hands land on her waist from behind, and she turns Constance into her arms.

“What do you want tonight?” she asks, leaning in to mouth the words into Constance’s ear, kissing her softly on the neck just below her earlobe, where it meets her jawbone.

Since Sylvie invited them to their bed, Constance hasn’t once asked herself that question.

But nor did she consider even for a moment saying no.

“I don’t know yet,” she admits, pressing her cheek against Sylvie’s hair, smelling oranges. “But I’m open to finding out.”

Four is made up of two and two, and she refuses to think, just lets herself be passed back and forth between them, riding the ebb and flow of all their movements. She isn’t sure what she wants yet, but finds herself answering the call of her husband’s passion all the same, balanced by Sylvie’s steadier but equally joyful presence.

She even trades a few kisses with Athos, though there’s no heat in them; she supposes they’ve been friends too long for it to be anything other than just a bit weird. She’s mostly in Sylvie’s arms or d’Artagnan’s, though there’s something intriguing about seeing them both together, mirroring each other in cheerful, uncomplicated passion, and wondering if d’Artagnan would submit to her as readily as he always has to Constance.

But if Sylvie and d’Artagnan together are intriguing, Athos and d’Artagnan together are _magnetic._

And throughout it all, even though he finally has what he’s longed for for a decade and never truly thought possible, d’Artagnan never forgets her. He keeps searching for her, for her gaze, for her touch; and when he’s lying naked beside her with their hands joined and Athos and Sylvie’s respective heads between their legs, they look at each other and laugh helplessly for a moment because who would have thought that their life together would lead them _here?_

Then Athos moves up to kiss her – and in that moment Constance has the most wonderful, most terrible thought.

She tries immediately to push it away – but it’s too big for her alone, too big for this room and this bed, and Athos must feel it in her body somehow because he stills, cups her jaw and asks, with an awful gentleness, “Is everything alright?”

She opens her mouth to lie, and chokes on it.

 _Fuck,_ she thinks, _this is bad._

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, swiping at her treacherous eyes, sitting up and pulling the discarded duvet around her body. She’s just stalling for time, she knows, there are three concerned faces looking back at her – she feels even worse when she looks at d’Artagnan – and the only way out of this one is through it.

D’Artagnan sits up too and puts an arm around her, and she snuggles gratefully into his warmth, feeling him press a kiss to her hair. “What’s wrong, love? Talk to me, please.”

“It’s – awful,” she makes herself say, “I know it is, but – we’ve been trying for a baby.” She looks at Sylvie, then at Athos. “For – nearly a year now. And then you kissed me – and I thought –”

She doesn’t have to say it; she can see the moment he understands.

“Hey. It’s okay.” He reaches out and puts his hand on her arm, where it’s hugging her knees; for a moment she considers going to him, but newly-conscious of her nakedness and the bombshell she’s just dropped on them all, she doesn’t move. “I know you know that it’s not a decision for tonight. But it’s something we can all talk about, if it’s what you want. Okay?”

“Okay,” she repeats, forcing a smile.

Suddenly she wants to be anywhere else.

She wriggles out from under d’Artagnan’s arm, so she can look at him.

“I’m going to go and start cleaning up. I just want to be on my own for a bit. But I want you all to stay here. If that’s okay for you.” When d’Artagnan’s eyes widen she smiles, and this time means it. “I want you to have this.”

“Yeah. Me too.” D’Artagnan kisses her, hard and grateful. “I love you so much.”

“And I you.” Constance winks. “Have fun.”

Five minutes later she’s downstairs in the restaurant kitchen, wearing d’Artagnan’s _Musketeers_ hoodie, pyjama bottoms and no bra, brewing a cup of tea.

Athos’ _mise en place_ is still set out on the counter; and she wonders what he’d expected them to say.

 _It was always going to be about d’Artagnan and Athos,_ she thinks, and then in the next breath decides she’s actually wrong.

She knows Athos and Sylvie too well to think this was ever intended to be temporary, or just about sex; or to think they wouldn’t have considered every possible consequence.

It’s reassuring, really, that she doesn’t have to be the only one with their feet on the ground.

She thinks about d’Artagnan upstairs with them, without her, and is relieved to find she doesn’t mind. While this isn’t exactly her area of expertise, she thinks she’s gleaned enough from Aramis over the years to know that you can’t expect everything to be perfectly equal between four people.

It just needs its own equilibrium, she decides, as she starts the washing up.

Athos walks in about quarter of an hour later, wearing T-shirt and boxers, just as she’s running out of space on the draining board. He plucks the tea towel from her shoulder and starts drying up, without a word.

She knows he’ll wait until she’s ready to talk. She’s always liked that about him.

When she’s finished the washing up she throws her cold tea down the sink, and makes two more cups.

She puts one of them next to the draining board for him, leans against the counter, and asks, “How long have you known?”

His eyes flick to her for just a moment, but his movements don’t falter. “I’ve always known.”

As she suspected. “So why now?”

He smiles, ducking his head a little, aware of her eyes on him, and she feels a ridiculous flush of affection. “Because now I have something to offer.”

She blows on her tea and takes a careful sip, as she considers her next question.

“Do you know what you’re doing?”

He shrugs. “I trust Sylvie. She has an instinct for these things.”

 _Meaning no,_ Constance thinks, and, _as if you don’t know us better than anyone._

Aloud, she says, “The hard part hasn’t started yet.”

All her life, she’s been torn between security and adventure, the familiar and the unknown, her head and her heart; and over time she’s learned that the path of the heart is both the harder, and the more worthwhile.

And she knows that Athos understands this, in a way that d’Artagnan never will.

“No,” he agrees. “It hasn’t. But I think we’re equal to the challenge.”

She can’t help asking, “Is this the first time?”

“No. But it’s the first time it’s mattered. To me.” He drops the wet tea towel on the counter. “What are you thinking, about all this?”

Constance wraps her fingers around her mug. “I think d’Artagnan’s heart has always been too big for just one person.”

Athos gives her a look. “And what about _you?_ ”

Constance looks at him, at the man who’s been probably her best friend for twelve years and who’s just had sex with her husband, at the creases at the corners of his eyes and his strong hands and his terrible bed hair, and thinks, _what do I want?_

She puts down her tea.

When she moves, Athos meets her half way.

She doesn’t know why she’s doing this, but maybe the warmth of his body under her hands is the answer.

His earlier hesitance was only a mirror of hers; now he’s not hesitant at all, as he slides his hands under her thighs and lifts her onto the counter, her hands splaying out behind her and knocking something over, messing up his _mise en place._

He’s not hesitant as he pushes his hands beneath her hoodie and touches her until she moans into his mouth. Or as he pulls her pyjama bottoms and knickers down and off in one swift movement, spreads her legs, and pushes his fingers inside.

When she comes, it’s so hard that she cries out.

He rests his forehead against hers as she comes down, both of their breathing harsh, and she thinks that there are a hundred questions she could ask herself right now, and she doesn’t actually want to ask any of them.

Some things just are, and the trick is just letting them be.

She kisses him on the mouth, and grins.

“I think it’s time for dessert.”


End file.
